The Thompson house hadn't changed in the decade since Casey first walked through its front door, nervous sixteen-year-old hands smoothing down her best dress. Same cream-colored siding, same wraparound porch where she and Drew had shared so many summer evenings, same porch swing where he'd first told her he loved her.

She sat in her car, watching Helen move around the kitchen through the bay window. The same window she'd climbed through countless times in high school, Drew always waiting below to catch her if she slipped.

Her phone buzzed. Her mother: You're having dinner with Helen and not me? I'm your MOTHER.

Then: At least tell me if it's a boy or girl.

And finally: Never mind, I'll just ask Sarah Conner at book club tomorrow.

Casey turned off her phone for the third time that day. She had enough family drama waiting inside that house without adding her mother's hurt feelings to the mix.

The screen door creaked open, and Helen stepped onto the porch. "I can see you sitting out there, young lady. The soup's getting cold."

Some commands were impossible to ignore. Casey grabbed her purse and walked up the familiar path, past Helen's prized hydrangeas—still thriving after all these years.

Helen pulled her into another hug before she could even reach the steps. "I made extra dumplings. And there's ginger tea for the nausea."

"How did you—"

"I was pregnant once too, remember?" Helen's eyes crinkled at the corners just like Drew's did when she smiled. "Come on, inside. Andrew's running late. Something about permit paperwork."

The house smelled exactly the same—herbs and coffee and furniture polish. Casey's throat tightened as memories hit her: Sunday dinners, holiday celebrations, the day she and Drew had announced their engagement right in the kitchen she was now walking into.

"Sit," Helen commanded, pulling out a chair at the familiar oak table. "You're too pale. When was the last time you ate?"

"I... don't actually remember."

Helen clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "Just like when you were studying for the SATs. Would forget your own head if it wasn't attached." She ladled soup into a bowl, the china pattern the same one they'd used at Casey's wedding rehearsal dinner. "Eat."

Casey took a small sip. The warm, familiar taste brought tears to her eyes.

"Oh, sweetheart." Helen sat beside her, taking her hand. "Talk to me."

"I don't know where to start."

"The beginning is usually good."

Casey laughed wetly. "Which beginning? The divorce? The Swimming Hole? Chicago?"

"How about we start with how you're feeling right now?"

"Terrified." The word came out before she could stop it. "Confused. Angry. Happy, sometimes, when I let myself be. Then guilty for being happy when everything's such a mess."

Helen squeezed her hand. "Life's rarely as neat as we want it to be. Lord knows your father-in-law—" She caught herself. "Well, Tom and I had our own messy start."

"Really?" In all the years Casey had known the Thompsons, she'd never heard this story.

"Oh yes. He was engaged to someone else when we met. The whole town was scandalized." Helen's eyes went distant with memory. "His parents didn't speak to us for two years after we eloped. But sometimes the messy way is the right way."

The screen door slammed before Casey could respond. Drew's voice carried from the entryway: "Mom? Sorry I'm late, the city planning office was—"

He stopped in the kitchen doorway, his eyes finding Casey's immediately. He'd changed since their confrontation in her office—dark jeans and a soft gray sweater she'd given him last Christmas, before everything fell apart.

"Casey." He cleared his throat. "You look... better."

"Amazing what your mother's soup can do."

"And ginger tea," Helen added, standing. "Which reminds me, the kettle should be ready."

She disappeared into the butler's pantry, leaving them alone with a decade of memories and a bowl of rapidly cooling soup.

Drew sat across from her, his knee brushing hers under the table before he quickly moved it. "So."

"So."

"Have you..." He gestured vaguely at her stomach. "I mean, is everything..."

"The baby's fine." She forced herself to meet his eyes. "Eight weeks, like you said. Due in April."

"April." He looked stunned, like he was just now processing the reality of it. "That's... that's when we got married."

"I know."

The memory hit them both at once—she could see it in his eyes. April sunshine streaming through stained glass windows, her father crying as he walked her down the aisle, Drew's hands trembling as he lifted her veil. They'd been so young, so sure, so completely unaware of how hard it would be to keep those promises they'd made.

Silence stretched between them, filled with all the things they weren't saying. Helen's voice drifted from the pantry, clearly giving them space while pretending to look for tea.

"Casey—" Drew started.

The front door slammed again. "Hello? Where's my pregnant grandbaby?"

Casey's heart stopped. That voice...

Tom Thompson's massive frame filled the doorway, his silver hair slightly wild like he'd rushed over from work. Which he probably had, judging by his rumpled suit and loosened tie. He still wore his steel-toed boots—a habit from his days working construction sites, before he'd moved to the executive suite.

"Dad," Drew stood. "What are you—"

"Your mother called." Tom's eyes locked onto Casey, filling with tears. "Had to come see for myself."

Before anyone could move, he crossed the kitchen in two strides and pulled Casey into a bear hug that lifted her feet off the ground. The familiar scent of sawdust and Old Spice—the same cologne he'd worn when he'd taught her to drive stick shift, when he'd walked her down the aisle alongside her own father, when he'd helped her and Drew move into their first apartment—brought fresh tears to her eyes.

"Put her down, Tom!" Helen emerged from the pantry. "She's pregnant, not a rag doll."

"Right, right." He set her down gently, but kept his hands on her shoulders, examining her face. "You look exactly like your mother did, when she was carrying you. Got that same glow."

"I think that's just nausea," Casey managed, fighting back tears. She'd forgotten how much she'd missed Tom's bone-crushing hugs, his booming laugh, his unconditional acceptance of her as a daughter even when she and Drew were falling apart.

She remembered the day they'd told his parents about the separation. Helen had cried, but Tom had just hugged her and said, "You'll always be my daughter, no matter what happens." He'd kept that promise, sending her birthday cards, leaving voicemails just to check in, showing up at her office with coffee when he knew she had big presentations.

"Nausea means a strong baby." Tom released her, turning to Drew. "You, on the other hand, look terrible. Have you slept?"

"Dad, can we not—"

"Because if you're not sleeping now, just wait until the baby comes. I remember when you were born—up every two hours like clockwork. Your mother threatened to smother me with a pillow if I didn't stop snoring between feedings." He chuckled, the sound filling the kitchen like it always had. "And you were such a worried little thing, Drew. Had to check the baby books between every feeding to make sure you were gaining the right amount of weight."

"Tom," Helen warned. "Let them breathe."

But Tom was on a roll, pulling out chairs for everyone. "Sit, sit. We need to talk about the house."

"The house?" Drew and Casey asked simultaneously.

"Your house. The one you never finished renovating." Tom's voice softened. "The one you put so much love into before... well, before."

Casey's throat tightened. Their house—the Victorian fixer-upper they'd bought two years ago, full of dreams and plans. The project that had started as a labor of love and ended up being one more thing they couldn't agree on, one more source of stress and arguments and disappointment.

"Can't have my grandbaby living in some apartment," Tom continued. "That nursery needs work, and the back deck's still not up to code. The windows in the master bedroom stick something awful, and don't get me started on that plumbing."

"Dad." Drew's voice held a warning. "We haven't even discussed—"

"What's to discuss? Family takes care of family." Tom's tone left no room for argument. "I've already called the crew. We can have it ready by Christmas if we start now."

Casey's soup churned in her stomach. "Mr. Thompson—"

"Since when am I Mr. Thompson to you?" His eyes softened, and she saw the fear behind his bluster—fear of losing her, of losing this connection, of his family fracturing beyond repair. "You're carrying my grandchild, Casey. You're family. Divorce papers or not."

The room went silent. Even Helen stopped fussing with the tea.

Casey remembered another silent moment in this kitchen, the night before her wedding. She'd come down for water and found Tom sitting at the table, looking at old photo albums. "Being a parent is terrifying," he'd told her. "You never stop worrying, never stop wanting to fix everything for them. Even when they're grown, even when they need to figure it out themselves."

"About that," Drew said slowly. "The divorce papers... they haven't been filed yet."

Casey's head snapped up. "What?"

"Sandra called this morning." He wouldn't meet her eyes, focusing instead on a scratch in the table—the one he'd made in high school, carving their initials when his parents weren't looking. "Asked if we wanted to put things on hold, given the... circumstances."

"And you told her..."

"Nothing. Yet." Now he did look at her, those green eyes uncertain. "I thought we should discuss it first."

Tom cleared his throat loudly. "Helen, didn't you need help with something in the garage?"

"What? Oh! Yes, that... thing. In the garage." Helen grabbed her husband's arm. "Come on, dear. Let's go... look at that thing."

"But my soup—" Tom protested.

"Now, Thomas."

They weren't subtle about their exit, but Casey barely noticed. She was too busy trying to breathe around the hope and terror warring in her chest.

"Drew..."

"I'm not saying we should stay married just because of the baby," he said quickly. "That wouldn't be fair to any of us. But maybe... maybe we should take some time. Figure things out before making it final."

"What about Chicago?"

He ran a hand through his hair—still that same nervous tell after all these years. "I haven't signed anything yet. And there are other projects, other opportunities."

"I can't let you give that up. It's your dream."

"Dreams change." He leaned forward, eyes intense. "You know what I dreamed about last night? Teaching our kid to ride a bike on Pine Grove's streets, just like my dad taught me. Taking them to the town festival, watching fireworks from the same blanket we used in high school. Building them a treehouse in your parents' backyard." His voice cracked. "I dreamed about our family, Casey. And when I woke up... Chicago didn't seem so important anymore."

"Drew..." She couldn't stop the tears now.

"You're not letting me give up anything," he said softly. "I'm choosing. There's a difference."

From the garage came the distinct sound of Tom dropping something heavy, followed by Helen's exasperated, "For heaven's sake, Thomas, they can hear you eavesdropping!"

"Well, if you'd let me open the door a crack—"

"Thomas Thompson, I swear to God—"

Casey couldn't help it—she laughed. After a moment, Drew joined her, and suddenly they were both giggling like teenagers again, holding hands across his mother's kitchen table while their parents badly pretended not to spy on them.

"We're a mess," she said when she could breathe again.

"Yeah." His thumb traced circles on her palm, the same way he used to calm her nerves before big tests in college. "But maybe that's okay. Maybe we need to be a mess for a while, figure out who we are now, not who we were trying to be before."

She looked at their joined hands, thinking of all the times they'd sat at this very table—planning their wedding, discussing their future, fighting about work and money and dreams that seemed to be moving in opposite directions.

"I'm still scared," she admitted. "Terrified, actually. Of messing this up again, of hurting each other, of bringing a baby into something broken."

"Me too." He squeezed her hand. "But I'm more scared of not trying. Of our kid growing up thinking we didn't fight for them. For us." He paused, then added softly, "Remember what my dad said at our wedding? About how love isn't about being perfect, it's about being perfectly committed to figuring it out together?"

From the garage: "Did he mention the wedding speech? Helen, did you hear if he mentioned my speech?"

"Tom, I swear, if you don't step away from that door—"

Drew rolled his eyes, but his smile was fond. "Should we put them out of their misery?"

"Probably." Casey stood, still holding his hand. "But first..."

She tugged him closer, rising on her tiptoes to press a soft kiss to his cheek. His skin was warm under her lips, familiar in a way that made her heart ache. "Thank you. For choosing us."

His free hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing away tears she hadn't realized were falling. "Always," he whispered. Then louder, "You can come in now, Mom, Dad. We know you're listening."

The garage door flew open so fast it banged against the wall. Helen and Tom tumbled in, trying to look innocent and failing miserably. Tom had cobwebs in his hair and Helen was clutching a garden hose, neither of which belonged in a garage.

"So," Tom boomed, brushing off his suit. "About that nursery..."

"Thomas," Helen warned, but her eyes were shining.

"What? Our grandbaby needs a proper room. And that Victorian has good bones, just needs some love. Like some other things I could mention."

Casey looked at Drew, saw her own mix of terror and hope reflected in his eyes, and thought maybe—just maybe—some messes were worth making. Worth fixing. Worth fighting for.

"The blue room," she said suddenly. "The one with the bay window. That would make a nice nursery."

Drew's smile could have lit up all of Pine Grove. "It would. Gets good morning light."

"And those built-in bookshelves," Helen added, already planning. "Perfect for bedtime stories."

"The wiring needs updating," Tom mused. "And that window seat could use some reinforcement. But by Christmas..."

Casey squeezed Drew's hand, letting their parents' voices wash over her. Outside, the stars were slowly surfacing over Pine Grove, painting the sky in shades of hope.

Even if the whole town would be talking about it by breakfast.

Even if they had a thousand things to figure out.

Even if it was messy and complicated and terrifying.

Sometimes the messy way was the right way.

And sometimes, she was starting to realize, the best stories started with a second chance.